THIEF’S REMORSE 

When I was a pre-pub boy
and girls began to drive me crazy,
in eighth grade bloomed Elise,
a beautiful blonde every boy was mad about.

At Christmas we all vied to get her
a special present, outdo each other
as if that would make any difference
as we couldn’t compete against Joey,
the star basketball center, 
Elise hung off as he trudged the halls.

But I had it easy. With little allowance,
I was a petty thief snatching dime store doodads—
a rack of ballpoint pens, a set of pot holders
for Mother’s Day, multi-colored barrettes—
mostly trinkets for girls I had crushes on.

Until a lady saw me put lipstick
in my coat and said:
“If you put that back right now,
young man, I won’t turn you in.”
Like Peter Rabbit escaping McGregor,
I fled and stopped stealing for a bit.

But that was before Elise.
I had to get her something very special
to compete with the other losers.

My step-mother sighed when I asked
what was the best present for a woman.
Taboo, the perfume of the season.

Light fingers snached a big bottle
as quick as Santa’s wink
and hid it in my sock drawer
to wrap and give to my blonde fantasy.

For unknown reasons, my Father
went into my drawer and found the Taboo,
found the perfume stolen for Elise.

His eyes flared with his nostrils,
like a stallion who had been struck
“Where’d you get this expensive perfume!”

My stepmother Ruth rushed in,
an aghast look at the bottle.

I began to wail. Quick mind mine,
a combo of fear and and sugar plum thoughts
of Elise fleeing:
“Oh Dad, You spoiled the special present 
I saved up just for Ruth!” 

My Step-Mother wrapped
me up like a present, 
both apologizing over and over.

Ruth’s smile matched
the Christmas lights.

I never married Elise. 

Originally published in Bindweed Magazine

MEETING FYODOR IN HEAVEN

Though named the laureate only of my street,
I intend to converse with many artists--
a never finished bucket list,
an unending dance card.
Whom would you visit first?

Dostoyevsky, my choice.
I know I’d wait in long lines
unless appointments allowed.

Fyodor and I, so much
in common—except talent.
Like that tortured, inspired writer,
I always seek to discover
if there is divine justice in the universes,
drink my fill of spirits,
mesmerized to perdition
for letting table games
gamble life away,
though I love blackjack,
more than his roulette.

Wayward poet, heretic!
Do I mean to contend that scalawag
would be ceremoniously ushered
through the pearly gates by Peter?
Yes, Fyodor did create
the faithful Alyosha,
decry the moral paucity of Ivan,
the hedonism of Dimitri.

Am I perfect? Be fair even though
it is not our decision at all.
Twain said humans can’t judge
a frog-jumping match.

Originally published in Words And Whispers

CHICKENS AND JEANS

Colonel (wasn’t a real one) Sanders—failed.
Farm hand, steamboat conductor, fireman,
blacksmith assistant, railroad, too many to list—
fired from three of them for fighting.
Wound up in a gas station where his wife
made a finger-lickin’ chicken recipe,
which Harland pressured-cooked
into a national franchise.
Marketed it and sold it,
called the gravy of the new company—
“wall paper paste” and sued.
Lucked into riches and fame.


Leob/Levi Strauss —failed.
His tarps out east
too thin for wagon covers.
Took his canvas and skills
to the love of San Fran.
Still too thin for the grizzled prospectors,
they made fine pants,
sold like KFC chicken.
When he ordered more canvas,
his brother sent him denim instead
and Levis were born,
later bell bottoms for hippies.
Lucked into riches and fame.

Bottle the elbow grease,
keep on prospectin’,

throw on your jeans,
grab a plate, dig in
and enjoy your luck.

Originally Published in Euphemism Magazine

SPURNED YEATS

All of his days, William Yeats loved the beautiful,
red-haired actress/mystic/revolutionary Maud Gonne.

Four times he asked Maud,
her heart brimming revolution and Theosophy.
He knelt, asked for her hand, but no forever.
She to him: ”marriage, a dull affair,
will ruin your poetry."

Instead, Gonne married a fierce revolutionary—
Major John McBride—
dashing, arrogant, ignorant,
brave right through his execution
for the Easter Uprising.
With him she bore a son, Sean.

Maud campaigned, marched,
organized for her love of country.
The Red Cross became
the White Cross for Ireland.
World-eyed, she helped birth
the African National Congress.

Fired by his mother’s heart, Sean,
a founder of Amnesty International,
received the Nobel Peace Prize.

In 2011, eighteen Egyptian women
were arrested, jailed, beaten,
searched with electric cattle prods.

One example of thousands,
Amnesty intervened
for justice over and over.

Broken-hearted, William—
her persistent rebuffs
birthed requited mercy.

Originally published in Euphemism Magazine

WEST SIDE STORY II

Fifty years ago, a date with beautiful Bemudian Mary Anne,
her skin shone like Maria’s. We held hands
for the first time, watched Sharks and Jets
dance their violence. We did not know the ending.
When Tony died we stayed long after everyone left,
cried and squeezed hands till the usher shooed us out.

I don’t know where Mary Anne is now.
She married a cop, maybe his last name was Krupke?

But tonight, decades later, nothing is funny.
As my wife of 47 years and I watch the Jets and Sharks,
we know the movie was shot to convince young men
to stop killing each other, hope for a brighter future.

Now in myriad communities—drive-byes in privileged suburbs,
gang violence rituals, guns match funerals,
kids learn to die in schools, rock concert massacres,
churches kneel before bullets, non-stop unrelenting tears.

In our towns, the guns come and go—Romeos killing Romeos.

Originally published in Euphemism Magazine

TURNING THE PAGE

When it is over, war
is like a sunken ship.
The waters flow over it
till the next ship
floats till it’s sunk,
and again forgotten.

Many years from now,
future students will get
a history assignment,
read about the Russian
invasion of Ukraine in 2022.
They will yawn and feel disgruntled,
perhaps behind in their work,
put if off, then read it
while headphone music
jumps boring lines off the page,
note that Putin deployed
over 20,000 soldiers
to their deaths, an uncounted
number of civilians massacred,
turn the page quickly
as it will probably
not be on the test.

Originally Published In Mad Swirl Magazine

MY WIFE AN OWL

Once a sprite blue bird,
always flying through my thoughts
and desires, in and out,
flapping her wings, singing.

But now feathers graying
at our dinner table,
when my lowering voice speaks,
she is an owl, tilting her head
and cupping her ear in my direction.

Not whooo, but why?

Originally published in Five Fleas

BULL IN A CHINA SHOP

and I am the china.
I know you
ground-pawing beef,
always thinking
you can win
by throwing your weight around,
snuffling your ugly head
back and forth
back and forth,
drooling
until you charge,
break innocence
into a zillion pieces.

can’t get you out the door,
can’t stop your attack,
can’t save the precious,
too much ever
to sweep up.

Guess I better never
let you in.

Originally published in Five Fleas

SIGH-N

An older woman now
remembers
Jerome
“Hubba” (because you were)
Norcross
Special Forces Vietnam;
the children
we never had,
the Christmases,
vacations, petty spats;
what you might have become
But didn’t….
I think I am glad they mounted
the green memorial sign
noting your sacrifice.
Reminds me to talk to you
every day when I drive to work.

Originally published in Down In The Dirt

LINCOLN LAUGHED FIRST

Particularly memorable were his words to a young woman whose deep interest in a hospitalised soldier led her to press the question: “Where were you wounded?” The infantryman, who had been shot through the testicles, repeatedly deflected her inquiry with the answer: “At Antietam.” After she asked the president to assist her, Lincoln talked privately with the soldier and then took the young woman’s hands in his own, explaining: “My dear girl, the ball that hit him, would have missed you.”

An august occasion—
the Cabinet tense
like Civil War soldiers
hidden behind trees
waiting for a life or death volley.

But Lincoln did not
spread out the scroll
of the Emancipation Proclamation
as the room expected.

Instead, that oak-tree, strong man
took a news article from his pocket
and began to read Artemus Ward,
a humor writer from Cleveland
who made Lincoln laugh
though slavery was not funny at all.

He knew it and steely-eyed
stared down the grimaces and grunts
in that room and this bumpkin president
read an article he found funny
about a hayseed performer bashing
in the head of a Judas figurine
at a carnival show.

Lincoln, notorious for telling jokes,
laughed first and told
the disapproving eyes
if he did not laugh
before he pronounced,
he would die
and that they needed
the same medicine
as much as he did.

Then he ended slavery
in the rebel states,
which was no laughing matter.

Originally published in Blue Pepper Magazine

INTERRUPTED BREATH

Among all the lasts in our lives—
last book read, last argument, opinion,
flower plucked, song heard, poem recited,
last pain, last tear, last smile,
child hugged, spouse kissed, the last
our eyes see—is our last breath.

After, for most, years and years,
the inevitable, usually a gasp,
releases and all we have left
is a lifeless, breathless body
for our loved ones to mourn.

But for those who love Jesus,
an incredible promise,
a new body, no pain,
or contention, but hugs,
and kisses and hallelujahs
as that new body
sucks in that first breath
as Adam did so long ago,
he and Eve using their
breaths to disobey and bring
the last breaths to all,
so now we can only trust
and wait for the glorious second
when our breath will never
be interrupted again—but Praise.

Originally published by Calla Press

QUIET MIND

Mind: Quit speaking to me!
You are rattling on the way you always prattle
and have done so since I was a child
and  in old age still talk incessantly.

You have thought good things and given me good ideas.
You have even helped me write some poems and songs,
suggested I say kind things, but also mean words.

I have meditated to rid myself of your chatter, but you are good
at intruding whenever you want, breaking in like a noisy child.
The world keeps happening, leaping or slugging forward,
throwing new sticks on the fire of my brain
that spark it into a blazing bonfire.

Even when I sleep you are loud and raucous.
Dreams have dialogue and you have no trouble
speaking up and sometimes dream words are worse.
In them, you have no filters, say what the hell you want
which you can’t say when we are awake.
Stuff my dreams with people I forgot
or don’t like or love from all times and ages,
even people and things that never existed,
then wake me up and laugh at me as I slowly rise to reality,
unless you just disappear and leave me with wadded bedcovers.  

I have not been able to stop you all of my days.
I’m not going to speculate about what you will do
if there is an afterlife. The idea of sharing, speculating,
pontificating, philosophizing for all eternity is more
like a hellish punishment than a heavenly reward.

Maybe then, instead, you will have an angelic
way of finally, truly being quiet, granting peace.

Originally Published In Fleas On The Dog

OBITUARY LOTTERY

I confess I skim over that lottery
every day when I read the paper,
hoping not to recognize
anyone I know but
once in a while someone
I remember peers up at me.
I am shocked but should not be
as I am 80 now so I know
the final stretch I am on
is not very long
and that few get to 90
and even fewer to the century.

Sometimes I look at the final number.
If very young, I feel awful and lucky.
In their 70’s, I feel weird, whistle.
But I mostly look at the 80’s.
If the age is early like 82 I frown,
if 88, when Mom died, I feel
a slight release, an intake
of good breath and if I see
anyone in the 90’s I rejoice
and hope and pray I am one of them
who still drives a car at 99,
even dances at weddings and has breath
to blow out most of the candles.

How great to be in that rare company
so when we nonagenarians
have a Memorial hardly
anyone will be left to attend.
But that is a selfish wish,
my fellow octogenarians.
I suspect you have had it too.

Originally Published in Fleas On The Dog

FIRST ACID  TRIP

Hey, I saw a photo of us
when we were young and beautiful
like the magic world 
that found us lying on the bed
during our first acid trip
rainbow colors
mixed with soundz
side-splitting laughter.

First you said the Hamms’ bear 
from the Sky Blue commercial
was in your socks—
almost howled them off.

Tried to recall the words
to Hickory Dickory Dock
and got it wrong—
did the mouse run up or down—
we laughed ourselves to sleep. 

Those were the Days my friend
we thought they’d never end

But cats came on the scene
cut the pills for profit,
drove us hippies
out of our synaesthetic dreams.

Soon our hitchhiking minds
only took bad trips
and poof the magic.

Originally Published in Rat's Ass Review

WHEN I PUBLISHED MY FIRST POEM

I could not sleep that night.
I was in a room
With hundreds of vases
Of various shapes and sizes,
Labyrinthine designs,
Hues to defy rainbows.
Commanded to compose verses
To inscribe on every one,
Like straw into gold.
I slaved feverishly all night.
Hundreds of lines,
Thousands of words.
I cannot remember a single one!
Am I a poet
Or was it a dream?

Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen

NO SENSE OF TIME

Fellow glorious fools:
We have no sense of Time
but this I hope—
in the Time of Waiting
will be no Time.

We will wait after death.
I pray for a marvelous sleep
till we wake.

What is Time now?
Waiting when we don’t know,
embracing the drum roll of anticipation
—both joy and pain.

Waiting for the birth, the doctor’s call,
the death, the good or bad news
every minute before we pass on.

Hope for a quiet peace
not knowing for a Time—
eternity leading to all eternity—
until the Time comes
when we will know
and Time no longer matters.

Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen

KICK THE CAN

My foot kicked a random can
on the sidewalk.
My old mind filled it with gravel
and threw me back to my neighborhood alley
and my 11 year old self.
Stacked the cans, knocked them down,
ran back to our team with hilarity.

Kick The Can for hours
into the fading dusk because TV
and video games did not exist.

Shot hoops,
cold or shine,
on our garage driveway court
till all hours.

Played Wiffle ball
at the American Legion
gravel field,
more important than
the Majors.

Hid atop
the garage roof
to shoot BB guns
at passing cars,
the irate drivers
unable to find
our hidden selves.

Is that world really gone?

Originally published in Medusa's Kitchen

ASHES/PARADISE

I will be cremated, instead of buried
in a pine box. Just plain less hassle.

My ashes will lay in a small box,
resting on the mantle of one of my children,
who will sadly go to the funeral home
to pick it up and notice the surprising heaviness
as I did when I picked up my Mother’s,
feel squeamish when running their fingers
through the first time, like sifting shells on a beach.

My children will scatter those ashes
at the places I asked—
the Little League field we won city,
Wrigley Field, the food bank I started,
the lake we fished on, our garden—
as many places as they will.

Staying in that box is one outcome.
The other whether a future
for me, beyond the ashes,
beyond that small, decorated box,
say a resurrection, or a reincarnation
or an absorption by the Oversoul
or something I don’t know about,
something more, something other,
something eternal, an afterlife.

If I am so privileged
to muse on my deathbed
instead of just dropping over
like my parents did,
will it just be a box of ashes
or a paradisiacal future?

Before I lie on that bed,
if I even get the chance,
I figure I better think now.

Originally published on Medusa's Kitchen

DANDELION GREENS

Each spring, food a daily struggle,
our mother snatched scads of dandelions,
shook off the dirt, cut away yellow
Rapunzel heads, washed the abundance,
cooked them down. Bacon on lucky days.

We ate whatever was put before us,
never turned up our dirty noses
at the stringy greens, often on our plates.
“They’re healthy,” she’d plead,
“good for you growing boys.”

Years later, she’d tell us
not to mention the greens,
embarrassed by our blessings.

I did anyway,
got an aghast rib poke,
a wry smile from her.

“Can’t eat them anymore,”
she’d retort: “Pesticides.”

Originally published in Silent Spark